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A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 3,800 times in 2011. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 3 trips to carry that many people.

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What do I blog about?

Do I blog about the guilt and shame I still feel for my part in an unresolved mess from January? Do I blog about how I woke up missing a friend that I no longer exist to because of actions I took against him? Do I blog about an online group I’ve become emotionally invested in who has recently let me down with its bickering? Do I blog about my stepdad’s death or my daddy issues? Do I blog about the drama involved in dating and loving someone 1,000 miles away from me?

It has been a rough week.

I think I’ll just blog about my Pepper. He’s my dog.

Six years ago, this wonderful mutt came into my life via the San Angelo Animal Shelter in San Angelo, Texas. I woke up this morning and after a few texts to Drew, he crawled up next to me and put his head on my shoulder. He is a lot like Drew that way. He always knows what I need and how to give it to me. He loves me at my best and even more at my worst. Today, after deciding the chair was his personal place to sit, he decided he’d be even better off on my lap. He saw me crying, and gave my eyes a gentle lick (I’m convinced trying to clean them as I do his from time to time). His almost white “old man” eyebrows and beard give him a wise, sympathetic look. Maybe I anthropomorphize my pets, but all I know is that today, my chronic depression has made an upward swing and he’s been here, continuing to remind me that no matter how small, he can offer love to offset the absence of others.

I guess the important message to get from this is to find love wherever you can. Whether it is a sweet text from your lover, a loving word from a friend over lunch, a hug from a mother, or a cuddle from your pet, we have to hold on to those moments of love and let go of the other moments. Today, everything I need to let go of is already in the past. The first step is done for me.

Now, to grab on to the love…

One thing binds them together. I write. Since my mom taught me how to spell out my name, anytime I let anger stew, anytime my heart is so big it could burst, anytime the world is in perfect unison with my soul, anytime my very human, raw emotions come under attack, anytime I look up and see God, I WRITE.

However, as always, there is another side of the coin. If I say, “I love you.” then someone reads it and I love the wrong person and if I say, “I hate you.” then someone reads it and obviously, I’m the devil with no soul. Writers offend no matter WHAT they say. And they offend often.

To be offended by another’s words is run-of-the-mill these days. We’ve been taught that everything anyone has written is about you personally. It’s a passive aggressive (overused phrase of the YEAR) means to erase the face from the other side of the computer and anything written is obviously meant to offend you.

Maybe those voices are right.

…but maybe, just maybe, people write from their hearts, and in perfect human nature, write for themselves, and not for you.

I know, for me, when I have a good day with my family, and I look around and see their smiling faces, my heart soars, and I want to write.

When I see a grown man cry because he has no home or family and it’s 12 degrees outside and he has nowhere to sleep, my heart breaks, and I want to write.

When I get a glimpse of what love songs truly mean in the real world, my heart melts, and I want to write.

To be me is to constantly ache for a keyboard. If me laying my heart out for the world to see offends you, it speaks to your heart, not mine.

And regardless, I love you anyway. Take THAT personally. Because I mean it.

—————————————-

I have heard that you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. I’ve also heard that you shouldn’t lie. These two statements are sometimes extremely contradictory.

I lost my father long before his death this last April. I mourned his death years ago.

I sit in an office in a homeless shelter filled with 50 or so veterans. Most of them recently sober from drugs or alcohol, appreciative that our government does what little it does to take care of them.

These men are real men. They have fought in wars and met the devil in his den face-to-face. They have survived with sometimes not much left to call their own but their names. Yet they have more than my supposed protector and defender ever dreamt of having. They have honor, a sense of service, humility and determination to better their situation. And yet they still find humor everyday.

My father died in April. It hurt and my heart ached for others in my family and I sympathized for their loss, but a sense of loss was absent, as my father was most of my life. More concerned with where his next dollar was and where his next drink was, regardless of his feelings for his children, we always came in third after vodka and money. I have no doubt that he loved us, but showing that love proved impossible when chasing those first two unattainable ends.

The men here have felt the wrath of vodka and money. Instead of itching for where they could find it, most realized it left them empty. Homeless and broken, they went out in search of a better way. Maybe it was because they served they were able to overcome their addiction. He didn’t. He went out of his way to NOT serve in the military and cursed me and his other children for doing so.

I still remember the “inspiring” letter I received from him in the middle of basic training telling me I was dead to him and how ungrateful I was; how selfish joining the Air Force was.

I realize now, there was a sense of resentment in him. All three of his children did voluntarily what he wasn’t able to do when asked.

Today, sitting at the front desk while making sure each of my veterans are accounted for, I realize I’m surrounded by the kind of men I always wanted in a father.

No matter how many times I told him, I still wish he had heard me when I told him that money never mattered to me. I would rather have a homeless daddy fighting for sobriety and his family than a filthy rich alcoholic who shared my DNA, but not my life.

I even made a bulleted list.

• I happily read NASB and think The Message is a load of bologna most the time.
• I believe Jesus was a real man, not a metaphor, who was ACTUALLY raised from the dead.
• I believe, however, when He ascended to heaven, he didn’t go somewhere else, but as my friend Sarah perfectly put it, He went someTIME else.
• I read Rob Bell and Shane Claiborne. I like and agree with a LOT of what they say.
• I also read C.S. Lewis and A.W. Tozer… and agree with a LOT of what they say.
• I no longer allow myself to take part in the Arminian/Calvinist debate, because I believe both are ultimately flawed and assume God’s power can only be described in human terms.
• I do not believe that people who haven’t accepted Jesus into their hearts will burn forever in a fiery pit of doom.
• I think Pepper will be in “heaven” with me. I don’t think we’ll have a mansion over the hilltop or walk down streets of gold. I don’t think we’ll be singing from the Baptist Hymnal all day either.
• I do not believe that hating gays (or their ‘sin’ of being gay) is what Jesus would do.
• I do not believe Jesus kicked alcoholics, unwed mothers, homeless, stinky people, holy rollin’ Pentecostals or liturgical Lutherans out of the church… and neither should we.
• I don’t think Jesus would spend a lot of money on a huge church, new carpets, choir robes, AV system, etc. I believe anything He received would go directly to the poor/needy. 100%. Without overhead.
• I believe the best way to put Christ back in Christmas is to start living like Christ.
• I don’t believe that cussing makes me an ‘edgy’ Christian or a non-Christian.
• I do not believe Jesus was a socialist, anymore than I believe he was a capitalist.
• I have no problem referring to God as a He.
• I don’t believe God is a He… or a She.
• I believe if you are against abortion, you should have adopted kids in your home or church, or support adoption agencies and fostered children.
• I cannot reconcile capital punishment with my faith in Christ.
• I believe the Old and the New Testament both tell us through laws and through grace, that we should love the earth and all that is in it. That means, as a Christian, I believe in protecting the environment.
• I believe in a universal truth, but I still consider myself a little post-modern.

My faith is as unwavering as yours. My views are just different… and that’s ok.

“Why would God have made us all so different, if He wanted us all to be the same?”

It’s also Lent. I’ve asked a few different people their views on Lent. To me, it’s a time of cleansing. A time to rid ourselves of the negative things that keep us away from God and pull in those positive things that keep us close to God. I had grand plans for Lent. I was going to keep out some unhealthy people and habits and pull in healthy people and habits.

It turns out, God had different plans.

God doesn’t have us push out unhealthy things. He has us push through them. This Spring Cleaning is a time to recognize that the only person responsible for making me happy, is me. I’ve been putting a lot of responsibility on others: my mom, my friends, etc. to make me happy. If their opinions of me dropped, so did mine of myself.

I have done some soul-searching and realize in many ways, I’ve spent a good part of my life setting myself up for failure, then falling apart when it failed. I’m cleaning that crap up, too.

I have become addicted to reassurance from others. Not to say people don’t need a support system and friends and family to believe in them, but it’s just as important to believe in yourself. I haven’t been.

I learned earlier this year putting all your stock in others means falling apart when those ‘others’ disappear. It was like I built my house on sand. When they stopped believing in me, loving me and being present in my life, my world crumbled. I hadn’t built a good foundation to begin with. I tried blaming them, but the blame falls squarely on my own shoulders.

I can no longer allow people in my life that need: to be my foundation, me to be their foundation, me to make them feel better about them, their life, family, self-esteem, etc.

If you want to be in my life, you are going to have to grab some cement and start mixing, helping me build my house on something solid: me. And Jesus.

She was raised by a verbally and physically abusive grandmother with her brother, who raped her from the age of eight to 13, when she had his child. Soon after, she became addicted to crack cocaine and started her downfall into the depths of Hell on earth.

She was a prostitute for a few years. At one point, a drug dealer beat her with a crowbar because she owed him $500, and spent it on drugs. She got raped once while trying to buy drugs. At some point (she doesn’t know when), she contracted HIV. She called her self “Satan’s spawn” and said, “God cursed me.”

She married an alcoholic sex offender when she was 23, who got drunk and beat her often. He ended up in jail for burglary, got out and she, since has lived with her boyfriend, wherever they can, addicted to drugs. She spends every cent she has on cocaine.

“I like it tonight, because I don’t have no money. When I ain’t got money, I can’t buy drugs. I hate drugs,” she said. “I’m so glad you’ve never experienced this life. It’s Hell.”

She said she doesn’t even get high when she smokes anymore. She just does it because she doesn’t know any different. She has been told by doctors that she could die if she continues using, because of the mix of the drug and her bipolar medication. She’s also schizophrenic and hears voices. She takes medicine for it, but it only helps sometimes.

Shaunte said she hurts everything she touches, and has been cursed. I told her she hadn’t, while at the same time, tried to convince myself of the same about me.

This woman, with a totally different life from mine, listens to the same music as me, is about the same age as me, looks young like me, has a sweet spirit, a big heart and loves to talk and smile.

She wants to be a better person and get off drugs and have a home. She doesn’t have support or love from anyone, including herself. Tomorrow, when the snow is falling and the temperatures are dropping, Shaunte has nowhere to go. Last night, she stayed in an abandoned apartment, not able to sleep.

She told me she wants to go to jail (but not yet of course) so she can get clean, get with God, have a warm place to sleep every night and get her life back on track. She’s about to turn over custody of one of her three children to her father, because, “If I die, I want to know he’s not in foster care.”

At one point, I couldn’t help it, I told her, “You know, sometimes, when we are at our deepest depths, that’s when God uses us, if we choose to let him.”

“Do you think God can still use me, after all the bad things I done? …because Lord knows, I’m at rock bottom right now,” she said.

Yes, Shaunte. I do.

The biggest problem with continuing the stories isn’t one I’d like to admit, but it’s the truth: I’m scared. I’m hurt. I’m heartbroken. I’m vulnerable and exposed in a way I don’t like.

Since I actually typed out those words, I’ll probably continue writing their stories, in one form or another. It isn’t just about one person and his or her struggle, it’s about giving him a NAME; giving her a FACE. It’s about doing everything, within my power (although I hate that caveat), to make sure these folks know I love them, just as they are.

I could spend hours and countless pages talking about Mary, the social worker who used to work with the homeless and now lives among them.

There’s man named Red (no, another one). He’s lived on the streets for about 50 years. Who knows where he came from or why, or what his birth name is? He has red hair, so like our other Red, he’s known as Red. He’s in the hospital now, so I’m sure he’d appreciate your prayers.

There’s Eric, JC, Nancy, Gaskell, Donny, Sandy, James, Rose, Steve, Bear, Briana, Olivia, Angel, Rodney, Byron and tons of others whose names I’ve forgotten.

I try so hard to remember names. Most people don’t even acknowledge these wonderful people exist. The LEAST I can do is remember their names.

The next time you’re at the street corner and you’re thinking, “I bet this beggar just wants money for his next fix, drink, cigarette [or whatever,]” I want you to add one more thought, “I should love him anyway… even if he really IS going to spend it on crack… I should love him anyway… if that doesn’t ever change… I should love him anyway. If every stereotype is true… I should love him anyway. He has a name.”

“Yeah, you mean Andre. He’s cool. It was his cousin and a while ago… I think.” -my reply

He caught my eye and threw me that toothy smile that has been glued on his face for the last two days. I had just finished three interviews, and was hoping he’d start talking without a lead. Thank God for small miracles.

“I like gettin’ out and makin’ my own way instead of askin’ from people,” Andre said, still smiling. “I’m a real nice person. If I see someone who needs my help, I’ll take them under my wing and take care of them.”

He said he met his fiancée online and was sick of the games and dishonesty the girls he knew were throwing at him. She stood by his side, despite his parole violation, and possible murder (which we are all still a little fuzzy about).

“I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I was around people I wasn’t supposed to be around,” he said.

I believe him. I also believe he killed a man. And I believe none of that changes my view of him or gave me any hesitation in hugging him and loving him and listening to him.

“I lost control.”

Who hasn’t been there? Maybe you didn’t reach in the glove compartment, grab the gun and shoot someone, but in my favorite Book, it says if you are angry at someone and call them foolish, you are guilty of murder and worthy of Hell. It says not to even pray or give thanks until you have reconciled that anger.

How could I possibly judge this man? In God’s eyes, I’ve done the SAME THING.

He went on to tell me about his fiancée, Sandy. He said he loved her because of her kindness, the very thing that has spiraled them into living under the Broadway bridge. You see, Sandy doesn’t understand money. She gets a paycheck, and gives every dime away before she goes to bed that night. She doesn’t mean to. She wants to save. She just can’t say no.

This mind sound simple-minded or (choose your own negative adjective to insert here), but to her, she just doesn’t understand. She can’t say no, and no one has taught her the simple life skills required to save money.

Gosh, I wish Bill Gates had that problem! These two have ‘adopted’ a young man named James who isn’t much younger than them. They saw him being taken advantage of, and took him in and protected him.

I don’t care what this man did in another life; in this one, he’s my hero.

Thank You God, for being a forgiving God, for being a redeeming God, for being faithful and loving and granting serenity, even in our darkest hour. Thank you for your children. Every last one of them, Lord. Continue teaching me through them, and use me for whatever Your will may be. Amen.

I asked Red where he stayed. Usually when I ask that, I’m given a street name, a railroad track number, or they say, “up in a camp somewhere,” not wanting to give away their site. Red’s answer? Well, one time he said, “oh, down southwest.” Next time, “oh, up northeast.”

“How long have you been in Little Rock?” I asked.
He looked down, as if trying to find the answer.
“Oh, a little while,” he answered, starting to look around and shift his stance.

I stopped my line of questioning and went back to building up cots and watching everyone climb into their makeshift beds and try to sleep in the crowded room.

“He did NOT want to answer your questions, did he?” my friend, Crystal, said later. No he didn’t. But why? Neither of us could figure it out.

Two days later I  learned a story that would break my already wounded heart.

Not so long ago, Red was hit by a car and sent to the ER. He had no identification and ended up in a coma for a while. When he came out of it, he didn’t know his name, where he was from, where he was headed or anything else about his life.

He’s too scared to try to find out details, scared he might not like who he was, since now, despite being homeless, has a heart of gold and gives to others like he’s got the world at his fingertips.

Does he have a family? Does someone miss him? Is someone looking for him?

How does one go about making a difference in their corner of the world, when they aren’t sure which corner of the world is theirs to make a difference in? How do we deal with a world made for us to fit into some box, when no box fits us? Does a person’s past define his story? Or is the true story that person’s present and how he uses his today to better tomorrow?

Some days I feel like I have more questions than answers, but I’d rather ask a billion questions, than sit idly by and watch the answers disappear, like the memories of my friend, Red.